


we will never be here again.

by Gon (pepperedfox)



Category: Fate/Grand Order
Genre: F/M, Gen, a short and sad drabble...
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-12
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-16 08:49:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28703943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pepperedfox/pseuds/Gon
Summary: A painting hangs on the wall across from Hektor. It's bursting with shadows and light, bold and dramatic as the statues on the lower floors. There is a clean-shaven man lying in clear agony, his ribcage visible through his stretched skin, as a woman and her child sit beside his deathbed. The woman does not even look to the man; her eyes are cast up as if she's begging some invisible force to help.Hektor knows the name of this painting.Andromache Mourning Hector.---hektor pays a visit to the louvre and remembers he's a spirit without a home.
Relationships: Hector | Lancer/Andromache
Comments: 2
Kudos: 28
Collections: Fate Week 2021 Fic Collection





	we will never be here again.

**Author's Note:**

> written for fate week 2021's day #2 prompt, summon/catalyst.

Here is the thing about being a Servant: Hektor wouldn't wish it upon his worst enemy.

When a man dies, his soul's supposed to go on to its resting place. Elysium, Tartarus, Asphodel - all final destinations crafted by fate's hand, each just deserts. Hektor knew this when he first laid hands upon a spear. Wicked or good, all living things were eventually freed from the trappings of the world. Immortality is a curse meant only for the gods.

Now here he is with an unlit cigarette between his gloved fingers, centuries past his time in some city called Paris. Hektor's sure smoking isn't allowed in the Musée du Louvre - the paintings are awful delicate and there's enough visitors to choke the air with body heat and sweat - but he keeps the cig out to fiddle with. A ghost deserves to keep whatever anchors he can get.

Nobody looks his way. Hektor likes that. Today's supposed to be a reconnaissance mission, which most of the Servants took as an excuse to sight-see. Makes sense, given how it's still broad daylight. Magi aren't going to operate where a mob of tourists can see them.

Hektor dances the cigarette over his knuckles one way, then back again. He can't make up his mind if he hates the Louvre or not. Humans want to know their history - they should, to keep themselves from repeating the same mistakes - but there's something about seeing statues of strangers bearing the names of people he once knew that rubs him the wrong way. Cherubic faces and chiseled bodies free of blemishes are all he sees. There's no scars from harrowing battles, no crooked imperfections gained from reckless gambles. It's all the heroics and none of the dirt.

And -

A painting hangs on the wall across from Hektor. It's bursting with shadows and light, bold and dramatic as the statues on the lower floors. There is a clean-shaven man lying in clear agony, his ribcage visible through his stretched skin, as a woman and her child sit beside his deathbed. The woman does not even look to the man; her eyes are cast up as if she's begging some invisible force to help.

Hektor knows the name of this painting.

_Andromache Mourning Hector._

He brings the cigarette to his lips out of habit. This catches the eye of a security guard, who shoots him a warning glare. Away the cig goes, with an apologetic smile.

All you needed to summon a Servant is something closely associated with them. The spearhead of a hero's signature weapon, the jewelry given to their wife, a book they had penned. If Hektor hypothetically left the Louvre with this painting -

\- no, the details aren't right to begin with. Andromache's hair had been black as a raven's wing, her skin tanned from working beneath the sun, face creased with laugh lines. And little Astyanax, he still had to be swaddled and carried, and he always cried if he got too cold and wouldn't stop crying unless Andromache or Hektor rocked him asleep.

The one who deserves this cruel second life is Hektor, and Hektor alone. Even if he could not see them in Elysium, he could rest knowing they would remain there, undisturbed. His legend overshadowed them both. It kept them safe.

The security guard is frowning again, with one hand hovering over his radio. Hektor can take a hint. He tucks his cigarette away and gives his false family one last look.

"I'll make my way back one day," Hektor says softly. "And boy, will I have stories to tell you both."


End file.
